


(as different as) the sun and the moon

by ayuminb



Series: Stark Sisters Week [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (because no one is happy about what happened at the dragon pit), (because we don't get his pov so we don't know what he's thinking), (except when WE DO), (i cannot stress it enough - she goes all faceless ninja on you-know-who), (other characters are only mentioned), (srsly she's not taking anyone's bullshit), (the north does not agree with them), Ambiguous Jon Snow, Ambiguous Mention of Jon/Sansa, Gen, Overprotective Arya, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Shit Also Hits the Fan while Going Down, Shit goes down, Stark Sisters Centric, Starks Being BAMF, Super Overprotective Arya, Team Dragonstone Arrives at Winterfell, Team North is Team Stark, The Vale and The Riverlands have Officially Pledged to The North, The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, They Know no Queen but The Queen in The North Whose Name is Stark, post-season 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: She rages and screams and if come night she crawls into her sister’s bed to find solace, if she has to resist the urge to trace the scars she now knows litter Sansa’s back—if she feels like a small girl of three and cries, cries, cries—well, no one needs to know.





	(as different as) the sun and the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Stark Sisters Week.](https://starksistersweek.tumblr.com/) Days Oct 15th - Defending Each Other & Oct 19th - Favorite Quotes/Moments. I am, of course, very late in posting this.

It is only after she does it—the whisper of steel being unsheathed echoing around the Great Hall—that she realizes she’s moved.

 

Arya cannot bring herself to care.

 

******

 

Littlefinger is dead and only _then_ Sansa seems to breathe easily – for a moment, at last. Something else troubles her sister and Arya doesn’t like it, likes it even less when she knows not what it is and therefore is unable to _help_.

 

Sansa still keeps much too close to her heart; Bran says she’s still learning to open up, after _everything_. Open up with them— _her_ —she thinks, because she’d done it with Jon already.

 

Arya takes the first step because she can’t stand _not knowing_ , because Sansa is her sister and she should not have to carry this burden alone— _we’re a pack now_ , she thinks, _we protect each other_. She does it because she can’t quite take seeing her fidget with her embroidery, tapping her fingers nervously on the wooden desk as she stares aimlessly around her solar—and she _remembers_ : Mother and her fidgeting when she was worried and Father and his aimless stare when solutions could not be easily found.

 

It hurts, the remembrance; it hurts _more_ , thinking Sansa doesn’t trust her enough to share her burden.

 

So, maybe, it is all that – _all of it_ what makes her push and push until her sister snaps and all her secrets—all _their_ secrets—come spilling out.

 

Everything they’ve endured.

 

And later; _later_ Arya will thank Brienne and Podrick and Bran for keeping people from nearing the hallway that houses Sansa’s chambers, for granting them as much privacy as it is possible.

 

Before that, however, Arya rages and stomps around and wants to shake, shake, _shake_ Sansa out of her stoicism because if anyone has earned the right to throw a tantrum it is _her_ —to cry and scream and rage, rage, _rage_.

 

She rages and screams and if come night she crawls into her sister’s bed to find solace, if she has to resist the urge to trace the scars she now _knows_ litter Sansa’s back—if she feels like a small girl of three and cries, cries, _cries_ —well, no one needs to know.

 

*****

 

She reads Jon’s missive and feels the betrayal keenly, slicing swiftly, _mercilessly_ through her gut. Hears of his march besides the Dragon Queen and has to swallow a mouthful of bile, the acid burning her throat. Listens to Bran recount the Wight Hunt and the gain of the Night King and the treachery of Cersei at the Dragon Pit; feels despair and so much rage.

 

Looks at Sansa’s anguished faced as Bran tells them of the falling of The Wall, the march of the Night King and his armies onto Winterfell. Looks at her as she tells them how the Northern Lords did not take Jon’s decision kindly – how they once again pushed for her to take the crown that, for all intent and purposes, is rightfully _hers_. Not even reminding them of what happened at the Reach has swayed them – their people has decided, if they must die they will do so as subject of a Northern Queen.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Sansa says, softly, in a surprising moment of vulnerability, “what can I do?”

 

And their brother replies:

 

“Be their Queen.”

 

Arya comes rather quickly to understand Bran’s statement and her objections die on her tongue—he speaks of a truth Father took to his grave, a secret that threatens to unravel everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve—in lieu of Jon’s actions, it is for the best. She won’t say it, won’t admit it _yet_ , not until she’s had time to speak to her brother – try to understand why he’s given their _freedom_ , their safety, away so easily.

 

Briefly wonders if he _knows_ – about Sansa and the evidence of the campaign for Northern Independence splayed out across her back, of how Joffrey imprinted every one of Robb’s victories on her skin. Arya _wonders_ , ever so briefly, and then recoils.

 

Because if he _does_ and he still gave away their home— _no_ , that betrayal would cut deeper, crueler, and Jon is not cruel.

 

But.

 

There are rumors—Arya’s refused to believe them, Jon would _not_ , her brother would never.

 

_Yet._

 

As she watches them cross the gates, Arya thinks she might just be wrong about that. She thinks she might regret offering to be the one to wait for their arrival. She _might_.

 

She does.

 

*****

 

As she waits for them to dismount, Arya looks around the small retinue, immediately picking up familiar faces and placing names to those vaguely so.

 

Brienne and Podrick had arrived a few days before, along with the Kingslayer. They now await inside, with Bran and Sansa and the Lords pledged to them. They are not part of the reception party; Podrick is, along with Lord Royce. A dozen of Vale Knights as well, stand by her now.

 

She does not need it, but appearances must be kept, she thinks; her mind whispers the names she knows, one by one, takes notes of those whose names’ she doesn’t know, yet. Tyrion Lannister, Varys, Sandor Clegane, Gendry, Beric Dondarrion. Dothraki guards, and some Unsullied. A woman that stands next to Tyrion Lannister.

 

Then there’s the one who can only be Daenerys Targaryen. And Jon.

 

He nears her, her borther, tentatively, and his expression it’s one she recognizes; remembers seeing it on occasions during their childhood, a wretched thing that always made her want to hug him and help him hide his mischief from Mother – the guilt.

 

That hurts.

 

“My King,” she says, evenly, giving him a bow; she’s resolute, despite Sansa’s words, despite Bran’s – _we are stronger within the walls of Winterfell_ , she thinks.

 

Jon stops, shuffles his feet and averts his gaze—he _disappoints_. Behind him, Tyrion Lannister walks a little closer, tells her that her brother has bent the knee; pledged the North to Queen Daenerys. The unknown woman starts talking then – rattles off what feels like a thousand titles, each one more presumptuous than the last.

 

And when that’s done, what little noise surrounded Winterfell’s courtyard banishes. The silence – it suffocates; the baleful glances thrown their way become outright glowers, as soldiers and smallfolk alike respond to their King’s actions— _former_ King, it seems.

 

Then:

 

“I understand,” Arya pauses, closes the distance between them and wraps her arms around Jon’s waist tightly, _wishing_ there were another way to proceed; knows there’s not, not after what she’s heard and seen. “Brother.”

 

Jon relaxes, whispers her name and embraces her back just as tightly, and would have refused to let go had she not insisted. He smiles at her, again, _tentatively_ , and Arya wishes so much for this reunion to have happened in private, away from soldiers and smallfolk and Daenerys Targaryen—she cannot return the gesture.

 

“Lord Jon is now Warden of the North, my Lady,” says an older man, Davos Seaworth, if she’s not mistaken.

 

Arya levels him with a blank stare, sweeps her eyes among the rest of the party; ignores Gendry’s searching gaze and even The Hound’s surprisingly calm look. She ignores the increasing discomfort, feels petty enough to _revel_ in it, if only for a moment – then she takes a step back.

 

“Warden of the North,” she says, focuses her eyes on Jon.

 

“I’ll give the title to Bran,” Jon says, scrambles to make things right, “it’s his by birthright.”

 

“Bran has abdicated his title,” it’s her reply, and she takes another step back. “He cannot be Warden of the North, or Lord of Winterfell. He cannot be Lord of anything.”

 

“Arya…”

 

The unease permeates the courtyard; between the glowering crowd and the stunned stares from the newcomers at her words – Arya wonders if she should stop speaking in halves, if she should not be enjoying this.

 

_Let them be uncomfortable, this is our home, we will not be cowed._

 

It is petty, but she doesn’t care.

 

“Lady Arya, just because your brother is a cripple—”

 

“It has _nothing_ to do with that,” she has to bite her tongue not to call him by his moniker, but she’s learned to control such urges by being around the Kingslayer as of late, “Lord Tyrion. It’s Bran’s decision to abdicate; no one pushed him into it.”

 

“Oh, well…”

 

Jon interrupts. “Sansa, then, she’ll be Warden of the North. She’s next in line after—”

 

“I think,” says the Dragon Queen – and Arya asks herself what forced her hand to speak now, “as your rightful Queen, it is my decision, and _my_ decision only, to choose the Warden of the North among House Stark. I’ve chosen Jon.”

 

It is the _smile_ that does it; the smile she gives Jon and his nervous shuffling before smiling back. It is the satisfaction she sees on the Imp’s face and that Spider, and the unknown woman and Davos Seaworth.

 

It’s the smugness, the knowledge these people think they’ve won _something_ —Winterfell and the North.

 

Their home.

 

Arya, though, she watches attentively, picks up on the little things these Southrons miss so very easily. Jon’s smiles were true and gentle, free if a little shy sometimes. But not restrained, not nervous, not like this—it doesn’t even reach his eyes.

 

_No, that’s not my brother’s smile._

 

It matters not; she completes her journey back to stand between Lord Royce and Podrick, and once more turns to pierce the group with blank stare.

 

“That’s all nice and good,” she begins, after a moment; this will hurt, she knows, but Arya can’t bring herself to regret it, not _entirely_ anyway, “but Jon is not a Stark.”

 

The smiles and satisfaction and smugness disappears; Jon freezes, the pain evident on his face— _be strong, Arya, be strong now_ —but the Dragon Queen looks ready to spew fire.

 

_That would be a sight._

 

“Come along then,” her hand falls to the pommel of Needle, “you must be freezing and tired and hungry, after such a long journey.” A pause, then, “I trust your armies are setting up their camp, that they’re well prepared?”

 

The Imp answers, seems to be the spokesperson. “Yes, ah… Our armies are well prepared, though perhaps not as well prepared to fare the cold as you are.”

 

His tone is kind, as is his smile; Arya remembers—

 

_(”Lord Tyrion was always kind to me, Arya.”_

 

_“But not kind enough to help you escape King’s Landing.”)_

 

—he tries to be charming; Arya wonders—

 

_(She thinks of Hot Pie, with his easy smile and equally easy charm – genuine, honest. Pure.)_

 

—when was the last time she encountered a man like this.

 

“Winter is here, Lord Tyrion,” she replies, “my Father always said, always _promised_. It is not our fault you Southrons failed to heed our words; you cannot blame us for your lack of forethought.”

 

Arya turns as if to lead the way, smirks, and then turns back. “I forgot,” and waits until she has their attention. “If you would hand over your weapons.”

 

Jon seems to finally snap out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. “Arya—”

 

But she does not let him go beyond that; raising her hand to halt him, she fixes her sight on the Dragon Queen’s retinue. “Your weapons, if you please.”

 

Annoying, it is, to speak so formally – but appearances must be kept, Sansa had insisted.

 

“How dare you?” the Dragon Queen explodes then. “How dare you disrespect your Queen in such—? Do you know _who_ I am?”

 

“Do I?” Arya tilts her head, keeping all the attention on herself, always. “Your Lady over there made an impressive introduction, but it was rather lengthy so, forgive me, if I let my mind wander.”

 

_“A Lady’s armor is her courtesy, Arya.”_

 

_But I am no Lady._

 

“You are Daenerys Targaryen,” she begins, “a woman claiming ownership over my home; riding weapons of massive destruction and foreign armies to a land she knows very little. A woman who claims to care for the people yet seems too eager to burn alive anyone who refuses her _gracious_ offer to kneel.”

 

The shock rippling through the Imp’s and the Spider’s faces gives her enough vindication to want to smile in _satisfaction_. They were not expecting _this_ ; were not expecting what happened in the Reach to land on Northern ears.

 

She does not stop. “A woman who claims to be a savior, yet did not care for the survival of the people she wishes to rule when she burned the grain supply from the Reach, at the very beginning of what Maesters say will be the longest Winter yet,” and here, the anger begins to drip. “A woman who kept my brother a _prisoner_ on her island; who sent him on a _fool’s_ errand that almost cost him his life!”

 

Jon steps closer, a slightly panicked expression on his face and Arya wants to rage at him because why—why is he afraid? What is he afraid of?!

 

“You, Daenerys Targaryen, are a Queen without a Kingdom or a Throne,” despite the burning rage, she manages to even out her tone. “Now, hand over your weapons, if you please.”

 

And with a jerk of her head, a slight nod, the Northern soldiers present in the courtyard, the Vale Knights at her back – they all grab the hilt of their swords, shifting their stances, ready to spring into action were it necessary. It would not be, not if the Imp is half as clever as Sansa and the Kingslayer claim him to be.

 

The handful of the Dothraki accompanying her, as well as the handful of Unsullied move forward—and that’s all it takes to prompt those loyal to House Stark to unsheathe their swords and point them to the perceived enemy.

 

They are surrounded, and by the look on the Dragon Queen’s face, she’s just realized that fact.

 

“Please, Sers, Lady Arya,” the Imp is, apparently, living up to his brother’s and her sister’s expectations, “Your Grace, there’s no need to be hasty.”

 

The Dragon Queen arches an eyebrow, silent fury burning in her eyes as she looks at her. “Should I let this disrespectful behavior slide, Tyrion?”

 

Arya tilts her head to the side. “Should I pretend this is not exactly what you did to my brother, then? Furthermore, should I let you ignore the dozens of arrows pointing at your heads from the ramparts?”

 

The quickness with which they all turn to look up is amusing, if only briefly. This, of course, is a calculated move; their loyalty, Sansa’s and Bran’s and hers, that belongs to Jon—but their duty, now, is to their people. And their people has been clear in what they want.

 

If they have to kneel for a Queen, it would be one of their choosing; one they chose gladly and without remorse.

 

“No harm will befall you,” says Arya, once more commandeering their attention, “on behalf of Her Grace, and House Stark, I give you my word.”

 

The Spider steps forth, now more intrigued than scared as he darts quick glances at his Targaryen Queen. “Her Grace…?”

 

However, she will dwell not on this, not as an unbidden smirk comes to her face. “Her Grace, Sansa of House Stark, the Queen in the North, the Queen of the Vale and the Trident.”

 

*****

 

The moment she walks through the Great Hall’s threshold, Arya knows Podrick told Sansa everything that transpired outside.

 

Her sister knows how to keep her expression completely devoid of annoyance in the face of their Lords, knows how to convey her exasperation with her with the barest of twitches – be it the corner of her mouth or the slight raise of an eyebrow. So, letting her know how very vexed she is with her at the moment, in front of strangers, is as easy as breathing for Sansa.

 

Arya, as good as keeping her face a blank canvas, lifts her shoulders just a bit in lieu of outright smirking.

 

Once the party she’s escorting is close enough to the dais, Arya stops, turns and waits for their guests to be in position. She nods to the guards, and then walks to stand next to Sansa as Lord Royce retakes his place among the other Lords.

 

“Daenerys Targaryen, I welcome you and yours into my home,” says Sansa, standing tall and regal. “As Princess Arya has certainly told you, no harm shall befall you while you reside within my lands.”

 

There’s a pause, and Arya tries not to scowl at the mention of being a princess now, and then:

 

“So long as you and yours vow this very moment to behave peacefully.”

 

“And if we refuse to make such an oath?”

 

A few steps away, standing on Bran’s far side, the Kingslayer sighs.

 

“Then I will ask you to leave now, and to never set foot on any of my Kingdoms again,” says Sansa, piercing the Imp with a hard glare. “Should you refuse that option as well, I’ll have my guards cut you down where you stand.”

 

The Imp and the Spider are quick to come to their Queen’s side, whisper what it’s probably reassurance to calm her. It’s Jon’s anxious reaction and the way he steps closer to her what rankles so damn much.

 

She chances a glance at her siblings, and from their stoic expressions, she knows they noticed. _So it is true_ , she thinks, _he’s lost himself between the Dragon Queen’s legs_.

 

The disappointment might be more crushing than the betrayal.

 

“Exile or death,” says the Imp, looking entirely too disappointed, “those are our options?”

 

The Kingslayer sighs again.

 

Arya is quite fed up with all of this, the wasting of time. “Is your hearing impaired, _my Lord_? My sister said, very _clearly_ , that you would only be asked to leave _if_ you fail to promise to keep your people under control,” she snaps. “What part of ‘behave peacefully’ is so hard to understand? Death is only an option if you refuse to behave peacefully _and_ to leave, both.”

 

Sansa lies a hand on her arm, placating her ever-growing temper, before addressing their guests once again. “I am not asking the impossible of you; just that you do not cause any problems. I am not demanding loyalty in exchange for your lives,” a pause, her gaze hardens. “That may be your preferred course of actions, but it is not mine. _However_ , I will not risk the safety of my people. So choose now, please, we have wasted enough time as it is – the Night King will not wait for us to settle our squabbles.”

 

“He did not wait,” says Bran, speaking for the first time, leveling Jon with a hard stare. “He has already brought The Wall down with the dragon you lost to him; he’s marching on us as we speak.”

 

Jon hisses, pinches the bridge of his nose and suddenly—suddenly he looks so _exhausted_ , it’s all Arya can do not to rush to his side and embrace him.

 

“An oath, that you shall keep your people under control, is all I ask.”

 

“And if we fail to uphold our end of the oath?”

 

Arya thinks she could be forgiven for growling under her breath; Sansa’s hand tightening her hold is answer enough that it will not do for trouble to start on their end.

 

“The punishment for oath-breakers is beheading,” Sansa’s words echo within the wall of the Great Hall ominously. “But as we cannot afford to lose any more people on the side of the living, the punishment will be decided according to the offense. Petty squabbles, little brawls among soldiers; those kinds do not require a sentence of death, though I do expect some sort of action to be taken against the instigator.”

 

“You shall be punishing your soldiers… and we shall punish ours?”

 

“Of course, Lord Tyrion,” her sister says, “the punishment, of course, must still fall under what our laws allow.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“I will have no one executed by dragonfire.”

 

Of course, the Dragon Queen will not remain silent; no one expects her to. Why she chooses this moment to speak is anyone’s guess. “Will you be taking your own head, then, Lady Stark?”

 

The Stark soldiers shift restlessly; there’s a low hum of dissatisfaction at the perceived insult, but as Sansa remains calm, no one acts. Arya herself will not do anything until she’s absolutely sure there’s no other way.

 

She will _not_ keep her silence in lieu of such disrespect. “Address my sister by her proper title, Daenerys Targaryen, lest your stay in Winterfell comes to a swift end.”

 

Her hand tightens on the hilt of Needle, and were it not for Sansa’s near painful grip on her arm, she wouldn’t have realized what she’s been about to do. And can anyone blame her? She longs to punch the smugness out of that pretty face so bloody much.

 

“Of course, forgive me, _Your Grace_ ,” so much venom dripping from such a pretty woman; Arya’s reminded vaguely of Cersei, though the Dragon Queen doesn’t seem to have mastered her ability to hide behind a mask – her face, her tone, it gives away too _much_. “I just meant, since you are currently an oath-breaker, will you be held accountable as well? Or is the Queen in the North above her own laws?”

 

Arya does not look at Jon, does not wish to see his reaction to this; fears she will snap if he _doesn’t_ seem offended on Sansa’s behalf. She rages and rages and _rages_ – _she kept the North for you, kept the people loyal to you through your absence, kept your armies here and defended your rights! And this is how you repay her, Jon? By throwing it all away?!_

 

“No one is above the law, _Your Grace_ ,” the venom tinting Sansa’s words are deliberate, this much she knows, “but you must forgive my confusion. I do not know to which oath you refer.”

 

Head tilting, eyes slightly rounded – her sister is the perfect image of innocent befuddlement. And Arya’s fairly certain she’s the only one to catch up on the condescending way she speaks now.

 

And the Kingslayer, if the way he bows his head to hide the smirk is anything to go by.

 

“The oath Tohrren Stark made to Aegon the Conqueror, of course,” says the Dragon Queen, all false sweetness and poisonous smiles.

 

Sansa hums, turns to Bran, then to her, before piercing their guests with a blank stare. “Forgive me, but didn’t the Targaryen reign end with Robert’s Rebellion? Or do the people of Westeros have their facts wrong? ”

 

“If I may, Your Grace?” the Kingslayer bends slightly forward, a smirk pulling at his lips.

 

Sansa nods.

 

“You do not have your facts wrong, Your Grace, the Targaryens were successfully, _rightfully_ , dethroned during Robert’s Rebellion,” there’s another smirk Arya would not mind punching off, regardless of alliances. “While it is true that loyalties were divided, mostly evenly among the realm – it did not last long. Forgive me, Queen Daenerys, but by the end of the Rebellion, Westeros was well rid of Targaryen’s influence—happy to be, even.”

 

The Kingslayer straightens up, smirk still in place, and keeps talking: “Now, there is not a House that remains loyal to you, nor does it want you. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands – they do not want you. The Stormlands will rally against you, as soon as a Lord with the right name comes to gather them. The Westerlands are loyal to Cersei still and, if reports prove to be true, the Iron Islands and Dorne will no longer side with you after abandoning them to your enemies,” and he stops.

 

Only because Sansa picks up the tale. “The Reach is another region that does not want you, Your Grace, not after you burned the Tarlys–”

 

“You burned the Tarlys?” Jon’s voice cuts across Sansa’s, sharp and pained as he sends a horrified look at his chosen Queen. “Why would you—you _asked_ me—you said…”

 

Something eases in her chest; uncoils the tension that’s been gathering. It is good to know Jon hadn’t been aware of what happened at the Reach, so _good_ because at least this tells her he’s not completely gone into his ill-fated tryst with the Dragon Queen.

 

“Why else?” the Kingslayer glares, all traces of his damnable smirk gone. “They refused to kneel, that seems to be all the reason she needs. Samwell Tarly—that’s your friend, isn’t he—was most crushed when he heard the news of what happened to his Father and Brother.”

 

“I believe that makes all of Westeros that refuse to subject to her rule now, Lord Tyrion.”

 

The Imp grits his teeth, the only one who seems truly agitated; the rest of the Dragon Queen’s party looks annoyed, offended, but otherwise confident in their Queen.

 

Jon presses his fists against his eyes, obscuring his expression.

 

“Alliances can easily change,” says the Imp. “When the people see how capable, how _good_ our Queen is—”

 

“Excuse me, Lord Lannister,” little Lyanna Mormont stands, projecting all the fierceness of the sigil of her House, “but I do not need to see if she’s a good Queen or not. I’ve already chosen a good Queen, the best Queen if you ask me; one who has spent the last year working tirelessly to prepare us for the Long Night, for Winter. One who knows our lands and customs, our _people_.

 

“One who’s even managed to garner the support of Southron Houses because she is capable and just and well-loved among us,” Lady Lyanna shifts, stands straighter. “Allow me to clarify something, my Lord; our loyalties will not change, we will follow House Stark to the bitter end.”

 

_“We know no Queen but the Queen in the North whose name is Stark!”_

 

All around them, they Lords exclaim their agreement. The murmurs pick up volume and suddenly screams of “Queen in the North!” reverberate within the Hall.

 

Arya feels a swell of pride in her chest; happy for the support the people are giving them—giving Sansa. She feels her sister squeeze her arm rather painfully, but withstands it gladly – anything to help her keep her composure. Chancing a glance her way, Arya catches Bran squeezing her free hand, on top of the table.

 

_“I promised myself, once, if I am ever Queen, I’ll make the people love me.”_

 

 _They love you now, sister_ , she thinks, _they love you now and rightfully so_.

 

Right there, next to Daenerys Targaryen, Jon tries to control his expression – but he’s not quick enough, few people can hide well enough their emotion for her not to see, so Arya can tell. He’s proud as well, _happy_ , even if all that is clouded by guilt and pain.

 

Then, it happens; the Dragon Queen smiles, _serenely_ , and waits for the noise to diminish, before speaking her piece:

 

“There’s not much I can do, can I? You must be really something, Sansa Stark, to inspire such loyalty in your subjects.”

 

A pause; suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end – Arya feels a threat keenly, before it is even spoken.

 

“Will they remain loyal, once I fly my dragons and burn their homes to the ground?”

 

Her smile is a terrifying thing to see; Arya grips the hilt of Needle once again, feels Brienne and the Kingslayer shift and probably do the same.

 

“Will your men stand on my path when I turn my dragons on you? Will they burn by your side or will they forfeit their vows to keep their lives?”

 

The Imp and the Spider scurry to her side, whispering urgently at her ear, but the Dragon Queen waves them off. Her gaze intent, she strides forward slowly, menacing—in the distance, the screech of dragons can be heard over the deafening silence permeating the Hall.

 

 _Closer_ —Arya can only hear the howling of a wolf.

 

“As soon as you _burn_ , your people will fall to their knees – just as the soldiers of the Reach did. As soon as you _burn_ , they will follow your brother,” closer and closer she steps; tighter and tighter Arya’s muscles coil, “the brother of my choosing; as soon as you burn, _Sansa Stark_ —”

 

The doors burst open, Sansa stands up—eyes as cold as the winds that blow beyond The Wall and a face as smooth as porcelain, and then:

 

******

 

She’s vaguely aware of Ghost bounding through the doors, of Brienne and the Kingslayer flanking her sides; of the soldiers littering the Hall, all with their weapons aimed at the Dragon Queen and her retinue.

 

So very _vaguely_.

 

Her focus narrows down on the woman before her—and when, _exactly_ , did she came to stand before this woman—silver-haired, violet-eyed, and full of ire.

 

_Stick ‘em with the pointy end._

 

A push is all she needs to pierce the skin of the neck, like that boy from what feels like centuries ago, who tried to steal her sword. A _push_ , simple and clean, and Needle would come out of the other side – and all of this would be _over_.

 

“My Lady—”

 

“No,” her voice cuts through the Imp’s pleas, swift and merciless, conveying the rage that boils—and boils, boils, _boils_ —beneath her skin. “You don’t get to come here, into our home, and threaten to burn our people.”

 

Ghost circles the Hall, comes to stand right behind her, and breaks the silence with a very loud, very menacing, growl. One Arya feels like adopting.

 

“No one gets to threaten my sister,” she snarls, and thinks never _again_ ; she steps forward, forces her prey to step back, “you, Daenerys Targaryen, do _not_ get to threaten my sister.”

 

_(“Revenge was the biggest motivation I had to learn everything I know now. But my skills can be used for more than that; I can protect you now, all of you.”_

 

_“Isn’t it my duty to protect you, as the eldest sister? As the Lady of Winterfell?”_

 

_“You protect us the best you can, Sansa, employing what you know. You care for us; let us care for you too. Let Arya care for us the best she knows how, let me do the same.”)_

 

“I do what I _please_ ,” she smiles, looks so assured of her own words – Arya wonders if she’s ever been proven wrong since acquiring her dragons. “It would take no time, to call for my dragons, and burn you all – so easy. And when your people see me walk out of the flames unharmed…”

 

Suddenly, a whisper; soft, foreboding, skirting the darkest corners of her mind:

 

_She’s mad._

 

Arya takes another step forward, forcing her back again. “It would be easier still to slit your throat where you stand. Now, what could your dragons do, then, your armies?”

 

“Lady Arya,” it’s the Imp who interferes once again, trying to placate, to reason – but fails miserably at it, “you are… _just_ a little girl. Queen Daenerys has two grown dragons; do you really think you can afford to defy her?”

 

Arya presses forward; he turns to Sansa.

 

“Lady Sansa, _please_ , I’m begging you – bend the knee and I promise you, there will be no repercussions for what’s happened here—”

 

“You used to be a smart man, little brother,” says the Kingslayer. “I wonder what happened, to make you close your eyes so willingly to the truth.”

 

There’s no hint of mockery in his voice, just resignation.

 

Daenerys Targaryen stands completely still in front of her; Arya is completely focused on her. The Dragon Queen glares—at _her_ , at the man who killed her father, at her sister and the man she calls her Hand. Then, slowly, over her shoulder, her voice flat as the screeches of her dragons draw nearer and _nearer_ —

 

“You would betray me as well?”

 

—she glares at Jon.

 

Jon, whose movements were so swift and silent that no one—not even Arya—noticed him. Whose sword gleams in the torchlight, glinting and steady as it hovers a hairbreadth’s away from the neck of the woman he’d all but called his Queen. Arya can recognize the stance, he’s ready swing his sword in a wide enough arc to sever the head, but hurt no one else.

 

Jon, whose shifty and nervous behavior suddenly banishes as he glares right back, thunderous expression for all to see, his ire uncontrolled enough to be felt.

 

Jon – who always comes through for her, for _them_.

 

_My brother, who will never betray us._

 

“Jon, what are you doing? What—” the Imp hisses angrily; looks nothing like the smug man that’d rode into their home, “—lower your sword! What madness has possessed you?”

 

Arya snorts, most unlady like; she smirks. “Madness? My brother is not mad—you are,” she stops. “Your Queen is – to come here and threaten my sister.”

 

Daenerys Targaryen is calm, so very _calm_ – oh, there’s rage and pain and murder in her eyes, but she remains calm. Exuding a confidence greater men struggle all their lives trying to achieve. Perhaps, she truly thinks herself immortal; truly believes she’ll walk out of this Hall with everything she wants cradled in her greedy hands.

 

Or perhaps it’s the knowledge of her dragons circling Winterfell that gives her courage.

 

“Enough of this nonsense! Do you all truly wish—”

 

“You would _betray_ me, Jon Snow, after everything?”

 

Jon doesn’t falter at the icy tone, he is resolute. “My loyalty is to my family and the North; I never pretended it was any other way.”

 

Daenerys smiles, slow and wide, eyes glinting in the fire; the Imp pales, tries to hurry to Jon’s side, but halts as some of their Lords point their swords at him.

 

Instead, he hisses again. “You bent the knee!”

 

“Did I?”

 

Her body freezes for a split second when a hand lands on her wrist, but it is Sansa—her sister, having made the silent descent to stand by her side, pushes down gently until she lowers Needle. Sansa lets go then, to fold her hands over her waist and Arya accommodates her grip to make her movements quick – anticipating, perhaps, the need for it.

 

Violet eyes make a slow, almost lazy, journey until they land on her sister. “Such devotion, and you are just a girl,” the tilt of a head, slight widening of eyes; the Dragon Queen almost looks _pleased_ , innocently curious— _almost_. “I am truly impressed; just a little girl – loved by her people, her Lords and Ladies, her family… What is your secret? Will it be enough, in the end?”

 

A shiver runs down Arya’s spine, unpleasant and terrifying; she shuffles her feet further apart, angles her body to partially cover Sansa.

 

Again, that whisper:

 

_She’s mad._

 

Completely at ease, the last Targaryen stands before them – outside Winterfell’s walls, the dragons’ screech reaches an all-time high. “Will their love outweigh their _fear_ , Sansa Stark? Answer me this. I wish to know so very badly, what is it about _you_ that inspires such devotion in these good people that they are willing to brave fire.”

 

_She speaks, as if it a done deal – our deaths._

 

Arya growls, intends to lunge forth; cares not about the consequences anymore—she will stick ‘er with the pointy end and be _done_ with it. _Let the Dothraki freeze, and Unsullied and these fools that chose to follow her_ , she thinks, recklessly, let them see that the Mother of Dragons is just another tyrant who care only for a throne.

 

_It’ll be over quick enough, just—_

 

“Enough.”

 

She freezes, takes notice of the hands holding her back and _fumes_ —enough, yes _enough_ with the threats, _no one gets to threaten my sister, my family, my home_ —Arya takes deep breaths to relax, finally realizes she’s not the only one needing restrain.

 

The Kingslayer and Davos Seaworth struggle to keep Jon from lashing out as well. Ghost only stays put because of Sansa’s hand clutching his furry neck, he positively hums with tension; but she knows, were it not for that, the direwolf would already be tearing through flesh and bones.

 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you react so strongly, Jon Snow,” the Dragon Queen smirks at him over her shoulder; briefly, _taunting_ , “with so much reckless abandon, uncaring of who bears witness to such an open display of emotions – and _all_ for your sister.”

 

Jon growls, he actually _growls_.

 

“I said – enough.”

 

Her sister’s voice is soft, but rings loud and clear around them; and that’s when she realizes, the silence.

 

The dragons no longer screech, and everyone finally takes notice of it; it is a relief, to see Daenerys Targaryen’s face fall into a frown, see the madness dissipate.

 

Then:

 

“Sansa,” Bran’s voice follows, softer still but ringing even more loudly for it; Maester Wolkman pushes his chair until he’s reached their sister’s unoccupied side and stops, their brother looks at them, aches an eyebrow, “it can be done.”

 

The tension leaves her—leaves Sansa as well—in a rush. She feels slightly nauseous, just by thinking of what Bran’s set to do – what he’s _accomplished_. A gamble, but it seems it will pay off. Something, _finally_ , might turn out in their favor. Finally.

 

Sansa takes a deep breath and nods. “My Lords, my Ladies, I need to speak to Queen Daenerys in private,” she nods at one of the guards. “If you would, please, leave us.”

 

It takes several minutes of tense shuffling about for everyone to leave the Great Hall, one by one, even Daenerys’ small party. Bran smiles, grabs Sansa’s hand for a moment, and then motions for Maester Wolkman to wheel him away.

 

“We need to speak, Jon,” he says, before crossing the threshold, “it is important.”

 

No one else moves – until Sansa nods her head to Brienne and the Kingslayer, and pats Ghost gently on his head. Jon growls again—she has to wonder whether he’s the man or the wolf right now—shrugs off the hand the Kingslayer still has on his shoulder, and stalks off, Ghost at his heels – he goes punching the wooden door on his way out.

 

Brienne pats her shoulder, but Arya ignores it and stays put; soon, it’s just the three of them – her sister, the Dragon Queen, and herself.

 

“Arya…”

 

“I’m not leaving.”

 

The ‘you’ goes unsaid.

 

Sansa smiles, cradles her face and presses a quick kiss to her forehead. “Yes, you are,” and she pushes her along.

 

Arya glares petulantly at her, but then turns a chilling gaze at the other Queen, and delivers her last warning—her only warning. “You hurt my sister, and I’ll be wearing your pretty face for supper tonight.”

 

She doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t stay long enough to see Sansa’s sigh, nor Daenerys’ mildly amused look. Arya simply walks away, not looking back, and closes the heavy doors once she crosses the threshold.

 

She leans back, _heavily_ , against the carved wood – and sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I did Arya justice here.
> 
> Also, I need a beta guys? Anyone interested? Please??


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